


Almost Like Home

by IncognitoPseudo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, My First AO3 Post
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 00:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17436254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IncognitoPseudo/pseuds/IncognitoPseudo
Summary: I dorky little fic of the days after Kirkwall. Fenris and Rowena Hawke are laying low, but Fenris is getting cold feet. (Mild violence and some flirting, but it's pretty tame.)





	Almost Like Home

Fenris considers the Sword of Mercy. He's deeply puzzled over his inability to make what seems like an obvious choice. Ro could get a decent price for it and she'd need the money when he was gone. But he can't bring himself to part with it.   
  
Ro throws back the canvas door, catching Fenris off guard and flooding the caravan with deep-red sunset light. “Fenris, you're not going to believe. . .maybe we shouldn't flash that around, huh?” She's never been subtle, so it's a testament to his distraction that she's able to sneak up on him. And she notices, her brow knitting slightly.  
  
“I thought you'd be out late tonight.” He tucks the blade away. She can keep it.  
  
Rowena hops up to join him in the back of the cart. It isn't much, barely more than a tent, hardly big enough for both of them. Nothing like the two massive Hightown estates they used to have. But he doesn't mind the way she has to maneuver around him. Ro finally folds herself into an agreeable position across from him and offers him half the loaf of bread she's brought home. “Matty got tired of me taking his money,” she says around a mouthful. Compared to their friends back in Kirkwall, Ro is finding their fellow travelers easy marks at Wicked Grace.   
  
The perpetual knot in Fenris' stomach tightens. “You should be more careful. If they have a bone to pick, and they recognize us. . .”  
  
Ro waves the concern off with characteristic nonchalance. “We aren't going to live in a cave, dear. Besides, we have those fool proof aliases.” She winks.   
  
They never talk about the danger he puts her in. She never mentions that—dressed in workers clothes without a staff—Ro looks like any other refugee. She never mentions that it's him, the distinct looking elf with the lyrium tattoos, who puts them both in danger of discovery. She always says 'if they recognize us' and she has long since trained him to do the same. It became more trouble to argue.  
  
“Eh, it's Matt's last night anyway,” she continues. “He and those little blonde ones. . .the siblings. . . I forget their names. They're heading east tomorrow. I was thinking maybe we should head out with them, though.”  
  
Fenris nods, a million miles away. “Sure.” She shoots him a side-eyed glance and he realizes he has no idea what she's just said. “Sorry, long day.”  
  
Ro watches him carefully, accentuating the slightly feline intensity of her features with her unfaltering attention. “Everything okay?”  
  
He nods, lying. “Everything's fine. You had news?” Quick, a distraction.  
  
She watches him pick at his food, eyes the place where he tucked the blade, and her suspicion spreads. Fenris hovers for a moment, acutely aware of the pack sitting behind him. He wonders if it would be wiser to try covering it nonchalantly or to stay put and hope for the best. He realizes it's probably a lost cause just as her eyes narrow and she lunges toward him.  
  
Instinctively, he tries to block her, but she has her moments of undeniable force. She merely crashes into him and the two sprawl across the carriage's floor. She digs through the pack, reading the tale of betrayal and abandonment told by his neatly folded clothes and recently hoarded supplies.   
  
He expects her to be angry, but after the deep concentration leaves her features, she only seems worried. “Fenris. . .what's going on?”  
  
She hasn't made any effort to get off of him. That's how they live now, entwined. They make plans together, they share the work. That's why he wanted to be gone before she got home.  
  
Say it, you coward, he tells himself. All at once, it might hurt less. “I can't keep putting you in danger.”  
  
“You don't,” she counters automatically.  
  
Fenris takes a moment to try to free himself, but the leverage is all hers in this position, and he worries that he'll hurt her if he tries to force it. “I know, I know. You always say I'm not the problem, that I don't put you at risk. But we both know that's just you being. . .”  
  
“Nice?” she asks, showing her clear disdain for the idea.   
  
“You. Brave and careless and more than a little reckless.” She shrugs her acquiescence. “It's touching, but it's also a little foolish. You'll be safer without me.”  
  
He's never said it. He's thought it for a long time, and she knows. But he hasn't brought himself to say it. After everything that happened in Kirkwall, after Meredith and Anders, they were both happy to be together and alive. But as the months crept on, Fenris couldn't stop the paranoia from gripping him. Long years of living on the run made him wary of other people, and not even Hawke's confidence could chase it away. Every look, every question, every hello, even, was suspect. An old farmer woman had told them yesterday what a cute couple they were, and it had terrified him.   
  
Her features are stormy, but it isn't exactly anger. Panic, maybe. “You promised.”  
  
“I put you at risk.” As though that was all he needed to say.  
  
She pulls away from him, self-conscious and overly careful. As though he's wrapped in a barrier she dares not breach. Still, she's unwilling to abandon him. And so, she hovers within arms reach. “Is that all?” she asks.  
  
“What do you mean 'is that all'? There are dangerous people looking for you.”  
  
“Looking for both of us,” she corrects him. “But, I mean, is that really why you want to leave? I'd understand if. . .” She brushes his fingers with hers, and seems entirely too nervous about the gesture until he takes her hand. “If you need time, space, we can work something out. You don't have to leave.”  
  
Realization hits Fenris hard. “Oh.” He moves to her side before he can stop himself, eager to remind her how much he loves her. His lips press against hers desperately. “No, no, no.”  
  
He's left before. She was uncharacteristically patient then, as well. But he has to make her understand. “This has nothing to do with before. We worked. . .We're working through that. I'm happy.” He pauses, because it isn't until he's said it that he knows how true it is. Her look begs him to make her believe it. “There are times when I'm happier than I ever thought I would be. You make me happy. But I worry.” There's something entirely inadequate about the word.  
  
A warm grin spreads across her lips, she presses them to his, then to his cheek, his neck, his chest. “Well,” she climbs back on top of him, gloriously deliberate. “We can worry together.” She punctuates it with a pleasant sway of her hips.  
  
“Are you trying to distract me?”  
  
She snorts. “Implying that I am somehow not up for a fight?” Ro is always up for a fight.  
  
“Fair point.” She pinches his nipple in response. She is not taking this argument seriously, but Fenris is entirely sure she's winning all the same.  
  
There's a footstep outside their cart and they both freeze, not even breathing. He gives her a look that's meant to be concern, but is definitely 'I told you so'. She rolls her eyes and climbs off of him.   
  
Slowly, quietly, he makes his way to the back of the cart. “Oh, Fenris,” Ro moans, doing her best impression of what he so desperately wished they were still doing. She makes it extra convincing, for their new friend's benefit, he's sure.   
  
She also grabs her staff, small eddies of power flickering up and down it's wicked looking length, and nods to him. On a silent three count, Fenris throws the canvas flap back and grabs at the figure lurking just outside their carriage.   
  
“Shit!”   
  
If the scream had been any less terrified, it's owner would have been dead two or three times before he hit the ground. As it is, Fenris is holding a very startled young man by the hair, blade pointed directly at his throat. He feels Hawke at his elbow, glowering down at their captive.  
  
“Huh.” She's not impressed. “What's your deal, friend?” The question has an edge. Fenris is more than happy to let her do the talking.  
  
The young man doesn't really struggle, which seems to indicate at least a passing relationship with good judgment. “They said this wagon was flush. I was just trying to feed my family.”  
  
“Thief?” Ro checks with Fenris.  
  
“So it would appear.” It doesn't feel right. Something's off about the night sounds. Fenris scans the dark woods. Something's off about the night shadows, too.   
  
There's the sharp crack of splintering wood inches from Fenris's face, and the arrow's twin hits a second later with another solid thud.   
  
Before Fenris has a chance to play the protector, Ro shoves him out of the line of fire. And the cart. He does his best to salvage his landing, rolling to a crouch.   
  
Hawke's boots hit the dirt next to him a second later. There's a rumble and grind from the ground before it gives up and rips away, wrapping Ro in armor of stone and earth. “No class, these guys,” she grumbles.   
  
“Be careful,” he warns.  
  
“Oh,” he can feel the charge in the air as she spreads her hands wide, poised to set the very elements against their attackers. “You know me,” she says. Then Ro rips the night apart.   
  
The open area around their cart explodes in a frantic dance of lightning. Several men in armor scream, lanced with the white hot bolts. But Fenris can see now that they're surrounded.  
  
“Whenever you're ready, dear,” she shouts over the din. Then sends a massive fist of stone at the unfortunate archer, crushing him thoroughly.  
  
Fenris doesn't want to leave her alone on the battlefield, but away from her is the best place he can be if he wants to keep her safe. So he flanks, rushing wide, then closing the gap at a sprint.  
  
It's been longer than he thought. The first soldier—or bounty hunter, or mercenary, or Maker knows who—almost catches Fenris with his blade before he's cut near in half. The second and third don't even seem to know what's happening. Ro crushes the next with another barrage of stone before Fenris can get to him.  
  
“Greedy,” he shouts over his shoulder. Then notices the archer behind her. “Hawke!”  
  
Sure, she's covered in stone. She's the Champion of Kirkwall. She killed the Arishok in single combat. She defeated a crazed Templar and her army of living statues. She's a legend. But she's also got the worst luck of any person Fenris has ever met.   
  
That's why she cheats at cards.   
  
That's why the archer catches her with a surprise attack.  
  
There's a spray of red and his heart drops into his stomach for a moment.   
  
Then Ro twists lithely, spinning her staff overheard in ferocious arcs before slamming it down with a clap of thunder. She fries the archer and a few other soldiers near him, for good measure.  
  
There's a scent of ozone and burned hair and the battle seems to hold it's breath. With only the pair of them, Fenris and Hawke are still numerically outnumbered. It's become obvious, however, that they are not outmatched. The remaining attackers break and run. Fenris lets them, he only wants to be at Ro's side again.  
  
She's settled herself on the back of the cart, no longer armored and cursing over the tear in her sleeve. The idea of cleaning and mending it seems somehow more infuriating than being wounded. “Maker's fat, hairy ass,” he can hear her saying.  
  
“That, by the way, is exactly what I was talking about,” he says. He is not convinced that was the best opener for this situation.   
  
She doesn't face him right away. She takes a deep, slow breath. For a moment, he hopes she might be calming herself down, preparing to see reason. “Excuse me?” The words pretty much crackle.  
  
He's got a moment to back down, and it flies right on by. “Them. Men like them. They're never going to stop, Ro. I. Put. You. At. Risk. You could have died.”  
  
“I could eat a piece of turned mutton tomorrow and die. I could trip on a rock and die. I could. . .I could. . .Maker, I could get hit by lightning and die. We just killed a half dozen people in a few seconds. People die all the time, quit acting like it's special.”  
  
Classic Hawke. How could someone have lost so much and still be so flippant about death?  
  
He really wants to argue, but what could he say to that? “I don't want you to die because of me.”  
  
She laughs, deep and wide and a little crazed. “Look who suddenly thinks he's the center of the universe. I'm the Champion of Kirkwall—” it isn't bragging, the way she says it with that curl of her lip “—there's a list of reasons people want me dead as long as the chant and your name's not on it once.”  
  
Fenris cringes. “Hawke, please,” he urges her to lower her voice.  
  
“What? Seriously?” She waves a hand around to point out the rubble of their campsite. “I think we've been made.”  
  
For the first time that evening, genuine, molten anger rips through Fenris. “That's exactly my point.”  
  
“Oh, don't you dare.”  
  
“Don't I dare what?”  
  
“You're such a shit when you get all dramatic.”  
  
“I'm not being dramatic. I draw attention to us. You're never going to be safe while I'm with you.”  
  
“I know,” she shouts.  
  
“You don't even. . .Wait, what?”  
  
“I know, you idiot. You're an elf with bright white hair, a six foot sword, and a full body tattoo that glows. You're a lot of things, my love—there's some choice descriptions right on the tip of my tongue, in fact—but inconspicuous isn't one of them.”  
  
Fenris deflates. He realizes just how much he'd wanted her to talk him out of it. “Fine, then. We're agreed.”  
  
“Oh, no we aren't. You aren't hearing what I'm telling you. I knew you were going to draw attention. I knew people were going to recognize you. I knew I could hide easier without you. But we promised each other—we promised, remember—that we would never go somewhere the other couldn't follow. We'd never leave each other alone.”  
  
“We thought we were going to die, Ro.” He knows a weak argument when he makes one.  
  
Ro throws up her arms, frustrated beyond belief, and instantly regrets it. She grabs her wounded arm and winces slightly. “Maker give me strength. So, that all goes out the window because we didn't die glorious, tragic deaths?”  
  
Fenris can only shrug. “Living's harder sometimes.”  
  
Ro sighs, pinches the bridge of her nose. “That's exactly why you should stay.”  
  
“Because it'll make things harder?”  
  
“Because you need me.” Of all things they said during fights, she seems to regret that slightly. “We need each other,” she adds, perhaps hoping to soften it.  
  
“I was fine on my own for years before I met you.”  
  
“Fine, huh?”  
  
“I survived.” She bores into him with a focused attack of incredulity. “This isn't about me.”  
  
“Yes, it is. This is about us, so it's as much about you as it is me.” She let's the wheels in her head click for a long moment. This isn't easy for her. Ro's strengths lie in a reckless abandon and overwhelming force. Both on the battle field and in discourse. She hasn't worked this hard since the Arishok. “I would be better off without you, right? That's what you're saying?”  
  
“I suppose it is.”  
  
“I wouldn't. But you—” he's fairly certain she intended to glare at him, but there's a worrying little crease in her brow. Her concern robs her attack of it's effectiveness. “Would you really be okay on your own?”  
  
He considers arguing more. “My happiness is a small price to pay for your safety.”  
  
He's almost proud of himself for that one. It sounds a little bit like the heroes of those terrible romantic poems she'd had him read. Or, he admits, something Varric might have written. Either way, it seemed to fit.  
  
“That is the dumbest thing you've ever said.” She sighs deep and long suffering. “You know I can't stop you from leaving if that's what you really want. But you should give up trying to convince me, because you're never going to. That will never be what I want. I want you to stay. I want to watch your back, and I need you to watch mine. And I need you to help me with this gaping wound in my arm, because it is bleeding—kind of a lot.”  
  
It actually is bleeding kind of a lot. Fenris doesn't respond, he isn't sure what he would say. Instead he sets his mind to the task at hand. He fishes out one of the injury kits. He goes about mending the torn flesh and applying a poultice. Slowly, in the back of his mind, he's beginning to think she's right. But he's supposed to take care of her. He's supposed to keep her safe.  
  
He doesn't remember reading it in the poems, but maybe a part of that is keeping himself safe, as well. And, much as he hates to admit it, the best way to do that is to stay with the lightning wielding, rock throwing, battle hardened mage who, much to his continual dismay, apparently loves him. And wants to protect him. The woman who listens to his every passing anxiety and reminds him he's safe when shadows drag the past into his dreams. Yes, that's probably his best shot.   
  
But it's not a routine he's mastered. “I'm not sure I know how to make this feeling go away,” he says.  
  
Ro rests her head against his chest. “What feeling?”  
  
“I feel like I'm always going to be looking over my shoulder. I'm always going to carry this panic around with me.”  
  
She's quiet for a long time. So long he begins to worry. “That makes sense.” Her hand slips into his, and she nuzzles his neck. “I'll just have to find a way to make you relax,” she whispers, breathy and suggestive.   
  
He pulls away, unable to imagine how she can be serious. She's wounded, their campsite is a mess, their traveling companions are beginning to poke their heads out to see what the commotion was, and she is completely serious. She even gives him a wink.  
  
And all he can do is throw his head back and laugh, so deep and long he has to catch his breath. She doesn't judge, she just chuckles along with him, the two of them perched on their tiny cart in the middle of a battlefield like they'd never imagined a different home.   
  
And he hadn't. She was his home, she always would be. 

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I hate present tense too. Not sure what possessed me to do that.


End file.
